


Birth of the Phoenix

by GreenHairBand



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels Are Known, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Dean, Rebellion, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6767815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenHairBand/pseuds/GreenHairBand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has been a gladiator for almost half of his life. Whilst continuing to fight for his captors, who call themselves 'Angels', Dean attempts to find a way to free himself so that he can find his little brother, Sammy, whom he was torn away from as a child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Dean holds his little brother to his chest tightly, trying to keep his breathing silent and steady as he stares at the blackness that surrounds them.

“What’s happening?” Sam whispers, holding onto Dean just as hard.

“Shhh,” Dean soothes, “You have to be quiet. Dad told us to be quiet.”

In all honesty, Dean isn’t too sure what is happening either but he can feel the danger of the situation and knows he needs to obey his father’s words. 

The day had started out normal enough and the two brothers had enjoyed a morning of playing hide and go seek but when they heard John calling for them, he had sounded both scared and angry, and Dean instantly halted the game to see what was wrong.

“Dean, I need you to take Sammy and hide under the stairs.” John had said urgently. “Just like in your game, okay? Don’t come out until I tell you to, no matter what you hear. Can you do that for me, son?” 

Dean just nodded mutely, wondering what could possibly have his father this afraid. He was never afraid. Tears shone in John’s eyes as he held both his children in his arms and pressed his lips to the top of their heads.

“I love you,” he had murmured before ushering them both into the cupboard under the stairs and shut the door, leaving them both in the dark.

And that was where they were, several minutes later, still none the wiser as to why John had asked them to do this.

After what seems like an eternity, they hear it, the quick, sharp rap on the front door. 

They hear the door being unlocked and then opened. 

“Can I help you?” John says, voice polite but strained. 

“You can come with us quietly,” comes the answering reply. 

This voice is unnervingly deep and unfamiliar to the boys and Dean tenses. Where were they taking their dad? 

“What is this about?” 

“You will come with us quietly or we will take you by force. It is your choice.”

There is a long pause before John sighs. “Sure, let me get my coat.”

Dean’s breathing hitches. John was leaving them. Why was he leaving them?

“Who else is in the house?” a new voice asks. This one was also deep but did not instil the same fear in Dean as the other did. This one is much calmer and sounds almost kind.

“No one here but me.” John replies.

“Please, do not lie to us. It will be better for you all if you just tell the truth.”

“I am telling the truth. I’m the only one who lives here.” John insists. 

“So be it,” the scary, deep voice says. “We have no use for liars.” 

The sound of someone clicking their fingers pierces the air before there is a loud, crunch and thump, as though someone had fallen to the ground. 

“You didn’t have to kill him, Uriel,” the calm voice says sternly. “He could have proven useful.”

Dean can barely hear anything over the sound of his heart beating in his ears. No, no, no, no, this cannot be happening. He pulls Sam closer still as wave after wave of sorrow and fear crash over him.

“Metatron will not tolerate deceit and rebellion among his slaves and neither will I.” 

“Let’s just find the rest and move on.” the calm one sighs.

Footsteps enter the house, echoing hollowly on the wooden floorboards, getting closer and closer with every second. 

Sam whimpers quietly, burrowing his head further into Dean’s chest. 

The footsteps stop just outside the cupboard. 

“We know you’re in there,” the scary one called Uriel says. “Come on out now. Slowly.”

Dean and Sam both shrink back, barely able to even breathe.

“Do not make the same mistake your friend did. Come on out now and no harm will come to you.”

Dean trembles in fear but knows he has to act. He can’t let his brother get hurt. He hopes the scary one is telling the truth as he slowly opens the door and peers out, blinking at the light that suddenly seems so much brighter than it had before. 

“They’re only children.” The calm one says quietly and pushes forward so that he is knelt directly in front of them.

The man’s presence is as calming as his voice and Dean feels himself slowly relax as he stares at the man. He has a kind face, with bright blue eyes, short dark hair and a layer of stubble covering his chin. He’s wearing a suit and tan trench coat, and reminds Dean of an everyday, office worker. 

“Hello, my name is Castiel.” the man says. “This is my brother, Uriel.” He indicates the man behind him and Dean throws him a quick glance. 

Uriel is not a calming presence at all. He is tall, dark and openly glaring at the two boys with fiery eyes.

“What are your names?” Castiel asks, dragging Dean’s attention back to him.

“I’m Dean,” he replies hesitantly. “This is Sammy.”

“And how old are you?”

“I’m ten. Sammy is six.”

Castiel nods and then reaches forward. “Okay, Dean, we need you both to come with us.”

Dean flinches back but Castiel still manages to catch hold of one of his arms. “Everything is going to be okay. We will not hurt you.”

Dean allows himself to be manhandled out of the cupboard and pulled towards the man, but not before he catches sight of his father lying on the floor by the door, his head twisted at an unnatural angle and eyes staring, blank and unseeing, back at him.

“NO!” Dean cries and struggles against the man’s hands. 

Castiel might pretend to be a good guy but he and Uriel had killed his father and Dean was not going to let them do the same to him and Sam.

Dean stops instantly when he feels Sam being torn from his grasp and he turns to see Uriel holding a screaming Sam against his chest, ignoring the cries and wildly kicking legs.  
“We don’t have time for this.” Uriel growls and then he is gone. Just gone. There is no crack of thunder or puff of smoke. One moment he is there and the next, he isn’t. And neither is Sam.

“Sammy!” Dean shouts and spins back around to glare at Castiel. “Where is he? Where is my brother?”

“It’s okay. Uriel has taken him somewhere safe. Would you like to go there too?”

No, Dean doesn’t want to go anywhere with this man but he does want to be with his brother so he reluctantly nods his head and lets Castiel pull him back into a tight embrace.   
“Hold on,” Castiel tells him and Dean clutches at his trench coat sleeves.

The world suddenly tilts and Dean feels as though he’s in a broken elevator that is quickly plummeting towards the ground. 

And then, just as quickly as the feeling started, it stops and Dean is left standing, not in the corridor of his house, but in a large, spacious hall with wooden panel walls and a high, domed ceiling, painted with pictures of clouds and dancing cherubs.

Dean’s vision twists violently along with his stomach and he finds himself grabbing at Castiel just so he could keep his balance.

“It will pass.” Castiel assures him. “All humans feel this way the first few times.”

“Humans?” Dean asks, confused. “And what are you supposed to be?”

“I am an angel.” Castiel states.

Dean cocks his head to the side as he stares up at the man, vision slowly returning to normal. “You don’t look like an angel,” he says.

Castiel only chuckles. “We are not the angels you read of in your holy books.”

Dean dismisses his words and looks around instead, only just realising there were others in the room. There are several groups of people in the hall, each group accompanied by one or two men in a suit. 

“Where is Sam?” Dean asks, examining each group and not spotting his brother in any of them. 

“He is through here. Follow me.” Castiel steers Dean through a set of grand looking doors and they enter into a room only slightly smaller than the one they had just left.

The walls were a rich red and the windows reached from floor to ceiling, with golden drapes hanging regally on either side. 

At the far end of the room was a desk with a stern looking woman, wearing a grey pantsuit, sitting behind it. 

Uriel stands in front of the desk, one hand still clamped around Sam’s shoulder.

“Dean!” Sam cries happily when he catches sight of him. 

“Are you okay, Sammy?” Dean asks as he rushes forward to greet him.

“Yeah,” Sam nods and reaches out towards Dean’s hand and holds with both of his.

“You took your time.” Uriel says to Castiel who simply shrugs in response.

“Right, well, now that you are both here. We can begin.” The lady says with a clap oh her hands. She looks both Sam and Dean in the eyes. “Your new life starts now. You are no longer Sam and Dean Winchester. You have no names and it will remain that way until your new master sees fit to give you one.” 

Shock surges through Dean and he wants to argue but he can’t seem to find any words to do so. Instead, he just gapes at her, outrage clear in his features. Sam just huddles closer to Dean. 

“But before you leave here, I must determine where you best belong.” The lady stands and circles around the table before stopping in front of Dean. 

“Let’s start with you, handsome.” She smiles wickedly and stretches out towards him.

Cold hands come to rest on either side of his face and almost immediately he is buffeted about by a strange, alien presence. 

Images, long-forgotten memories fly in front of his closed eyes and he hears voices echo around in his mind.

Instinctively, Dean fights against the presence, pushing back at it with all his might and for a moment it disappears, and Dean thinks he has won but then the presence returns, instantly harsher as it savagely searches through his memories and thoughts and cruelly lingers on every hurt he has ever felt, showing him his father’s smiling face over and over again. He feels tears well up behind his eyelids as he silently pleads for this to stop. Then suddenly, Dean finds himself reliving the moment he saw John’s lifeless body and something within him cracks.

Dean screams inwardly and claws at the presence, forcing it back, mentally screaming out curses and foul names. He opens his eyes and the presence is gone.

Ragged gasps escape both the woman’s mouth and Dean’s.

“Naomi? What is it?” Castiel asks quietly. The woman glares at him, still trying to catch her breath and then turns the glare on Dean.

“Take him to the colosseum,” she finally says. “He’ll be a perfect candidate.” 

Uriel pries Sam’s hand from Dean’s as Castiel drags Dean from the room. 

“Wait, no!” Dean yells, bucking against his captor. “Sammy!”

“Dean!” Sam shouts back, trying to free himself from Uriel’s unyielding grasp.

Castiel pushes open the doors to leave and hauls Dean through them. 

“I’ll find you, Sammy.” Dean calls desperately over his shoulder as the doors begin to close behind him. “I’ll find you.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years later - Dean is a gladiator in the colosseum and it is tournament day.

“Take him to the colosseum,” she finally says. “He’ll be a perfect candidate.” 

Uriel pries Sam’s hand from Dean’s as Castiel drags Dean from the room. 

“Wait, no!” Dean yells, bucking against his captor. “Sammy!”

“Dean!” Sam shouts back, trying to free himself from Uriel’s unyielding grasp.

Castiel pushes open the doors to leave and hauls Dean through them. 

“I’ll find you, Sammy.” Dean calls desperately over his shoulder as the doors begin to close behind him. “I’ll find you.” 

.....***.....

Dean wakes with a heaving gasp, the sound of his own desperate cries and the sight of his terrified little brother still fresh in his mind. 

He stares up at the drab, grey ceiling above him, morning light only just beginning to filter in through the one small, barred window in his cell. 

“You were talking in your sleep again.” a voice says quietly at his side. 

Dean doesn’t have to turn to see who it is but he does anyway, glancing at the familiar man sprawled across the other cot on the opposite side of the room. He is tall, though not as tall as Dean, with heavy set eyes and dark hair that has been shaved so closely to his head he almost looks bald. It’s the same haircut every gladiator is given, even the women. 

Chuck Shurley has been Dean’s cell mate since the day he first arrived. Being six years younger than Chuck, Dean had initially been scared of the older, taller male but the two became fast friends and Chuck did his best to protect Dean both in the arena and out of it, even after he grew big enough to take care of himself.

At ten, Dean had been one of the youngest gladiators in the history of the colosseum, and there were others there (both human and angel) that did not take kindly to kids. If it hadn’t been for Chuck, Dean was sure he would be dead by now.

“Did I wake you?” Dean murmurs, sinking back under his thin blanket. 

“Nah, I was already up. Too cold to sleep.” Chuck replies absently.

Dean grunts his assent. It really is cold. He can see his breath mist heavily before his face every time he exhales. “I must be getting used to it ‘cause I slept like a baby.” 

“Baby is right,” Chuck says, heaving himself up to a sitting position on his own bed to stare intently at his cell mate. “You were certainly as vocal as one.”

Dean cringes. “Sorry.”

“Was it the same nightmare?” Chuck asks softly.

Dean has nightmares most nights now. A lot of the gladiators do. But instead of seeing the blood and carnage of the arena, Dean’s dreams seem to centre around the day he was first taken by the angels, almost ten years ago. 

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, finally pulling himself up to face his friend.

“Want to talk about it?”

Dean chuckles humourlessly. “Not really.”

Chuck just nods in understanding before standing to stretch, his back popping loudly. 

“It’s tournament day,” Dean tells him, knowing that Chuck knows all too well what day it is but needing to say it anyway.

“It is,” Chuck grimaces. “I swear the weeks are getting shorter here. Has it really been seven days since the last fight? It doesn’t feel like it.”

“I don’t think you’ll need to worry about it. You fought in the last one so you shouldn’t be selected again this week. Even the angels must realise humans need more time to recover.”

Last week, Chuck and seven others had been chosen to fight against a rivalling group of gladiators from a different arena. 

In a way, that was the worst kind of tournament because it’s people fighting people. 

Usually, they are pitted against other beings like demons, vampires or werewolves; creatures that Dean and the rest of his company have no problem killing. Spilling the blood of a fellow human is always different. Harder.

Chuck scoffs. “My friend, if there is one thing I have learned during my time here, it is that our masters do not care about our wellbeing, they just want to put on a good show. They’ll select whoever they wish and there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it.”

That much is true, Dean admits grudgingly, but he still hopes that Chuck gets more time to rest. He hadn’t been too badly injured last time but he had suffered muscle cramps and spasms since and if he had another episode whilst in the arena, it could prove fatal. 

There are around a hundred gladiators that currently belong to the colosseum, so there are more than enough to choose from. 

Dean stands and makes his way over to the front of the cell, which is just a wall of metal bars that cages them in, and glances over at the cells opposite them. They are separated by a large circular hall where they all come together to eat and watch matches, but he can just about make out some others who are beginning to wake up and wander around their small cubicles.

“No point in worrying about it now though,” Chuck continues on. “We’ll find out who the lucky guys are soon enough. Let’s just get through breakfast first.”

.....***.....

Breakfast comes an hour later. The morning alarm blares out and their cell bars slide all the way up so that Dean and Chuck can join the others in the mess hall to eat. 

They wait in line with the rest for their food and then sit at their usual table in the middle of the hall. There are three others sat with them; two men and a woman. Dean and Chuck had befriended them around six months ago when they first arrived. Usually they didn’t associate with newcomers. It was nothing against them but they found that a lot of new comers died within their first few months and that in turn took its toll on everyone who had been close to them. 

These three though, were already seasoned warriors, having transferred there from another arena. 

Breakfast that day was a bowl of stodgy gruel and an orange. The gruel was unsweetened and hard to swallow but Dean enjoyed the fruit. It didn’t fill him up particularly but he knew the reason for that. Whoever was chosen that day, wouldn’t want to be laden down with an overfull stomach when he’s trying to fight for his life. 

As he finishes off his mug of water, he surveys the room, taking in the familiar look of apprehension on the faces of almost everyone in there. The same look they wore around this time every week. 

And then his eyes catch sight of someone on the far end table, staring straight back at him. It’s a boy, probably no older than eighteen, with dark, almond-shaped eyes and caramel skin. 

Dean raises his eyebrows at the boy, waiting for the usual blush and quick turn of the head that most people gave when they realised Dean had noticed them staring but the boy just continues to watch him, his eyes squinting slightly as if he is trying to figure out some sort of puzzle. 

Dean nudges Chuck and nods towards the boy. “Who is that?”

Chuck glances over and gives a quick bark of laughter. “You’ve finally noticed, have you? That boy there has been stealing glances at you ever since he got here last week. Though it seems he’s a little more brazen today.”

“He’s one of the new recruits? He’s so skinny." The woman at the table hisses. "He won’t last five minutes in the arena. What are the angels thinking?” 

“I’ve seen scrawnier runts make it through.” Chuck says, playfully poking Dean in the ribs.

“Shut up,” Dean snorts as he bats his hand away and returns his attention to his own table. The boy is new so Dean decides he doesn’t need to worry about him for at least a few more months.

That’s when the four large screens situated on the walls around the room suddenly switch on and music blares out of the speakers.

Dean groans. The tournament is about to begin.

The room hushes and everyone stares at the screens, the air so thick with tension, it’s hard to breathe. 

“Good morning, gladiators,” a faceless voice rings out. “I trust you are all well fed and watered by now and so are ready to move on to your next challenge.

“Today is a special day. Our supreme ruler, Metatron, has travelled many miles to watch you fight and has humbly requested we host his favourite tournament. And so today’s challenge will be ‘The labyrinth’.”

Dean’s stomach drops. Of all the tournaments, the labyrinth is one of the most difficult. It isn’t hosted often, only once every two or three years, but when they do happen, it is rare that any of the human contestants make it back out alive.

In fact, the only successful gladiator Dean can think of is Chuck. 

Three years ago, Chuck had been called to go into the maze with three others. Dean had been sure that he would never see his friend again but whilst the other three participants perished, Chuck had managed to navigate his way through the maze with apparent ease, as if he knew which route would take him to the exit and which would take him to the monsters that lay in wait. That was how Chuck had earned his gladiator name. From that day forward, the angels knew him as ‘The Prophet’.

Dean had earned his name during his first month there, but not through anything that he did. A gladiator as young as he had been was an oddity and so was worthy of the angels’ attention. It wasn’t long before the angels began calling him ‘Wild Child.’ 

It was a name that Dean hated then and loathes even more now that he is quite obviously an adult. 

“The gladiators that have the privilege of taking part in today’s tournament are as follows.” 

Dean holds his breath, praying that neither he nor any one of his friends is called.

“Contestant number one: The Avenger.” The screen lights up with a picture of woman in her late twenties, with dark fuzz covering her scalp and pale eyes. It was easy to remember how she had earned that name. 

Years ago, she had been called to fight alongside her brother against another human pairing. Her brother was slain during the battle and in a fit of rage, she singlehandedly managed to kill the other two gladiators.

Dean, back then just a wide eyed child, had watched as she continued to hack at them until all that was left was an unrecognisable mass of blood and flesh. He made sure to give her a wide berth from then on.

“Contestant number two: Gladiator 1643.”

Gladiators that had not yet earned themselves a name are instead given numbers. The screen changes from the face of the woman to a younger, male face.

“You’ve got to be joking.” Chuck growls. The face on the screen belongs to the boy who had been staring earlier. The newbie. 

Dean just shakes his head. Sending a seasoned fighter into the maze was dangerous enough. Sending in a kid was like sending a lamb to the slaughter. 

“Contestant number three: The Prophet.”

Chuck’s picture now fills the screen and Dean stiffens with rage. Calling in the same gladiator twice in a row was low even for the angels. 

“It’ll be alright,” chuck murmurs, as if sensing Dean’s distress. “The labyrinth is my specialty, remember?” 

“Contestant number four: Wild Child.”

Dean stares up at the picture of himself though he barely recognises it anymore. He finds himself missing the face he used to see in the mirror as a boy, with golden hair, bright green eyes and a healthy spattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. Now his hair is shaved too close to his head and his once bright eyes are dull and angry looking. The freckles no longer visible underneath his deep tan. 

Having earlier felt fear at the thought of being called into the labyrinth, Dean is surprised to actually feel relief flood through his veins. At least this way, he will have some sort of chance to help Chuck, instead of just watching helplessly from the food hall. 

“Will the chosen gladiators please make their way to the armoury to choose their weapons.” It is not so much as a request as it is a polite command. Anyone that refused to go willingly would be dragged there by force if necessary. 

“Good luck, my friends.” One of the men at the table, Jacob, tells them and Dean can see it on his face that he doesn’t expect to be seeing them again.

Dean stands and throws a glance at the other two contestants. The Avenger looks almost eager to start, her lips twisted into a feral grin as she stalks forward, while the boy had a calm but resigned expression on his face. 

The four of them are greeted by their two trainers, Balthazar and Anna, when they enter the armoury. 

“Well then, well then.” Balthazar says, clapping his hands together as he looks them over. “They certainly have chosen the cream of the crop for todays’ tournament, eh?”   
Nobody replies but that doesn’t seem to deter him. “Alright then gentlemen - ”

“And lady,” Anna interrupts.

“And lady,” Balthazar concedes, throwing The Avenger an apologetic glance although the woman doesn’t look like she could care less. “Go and choose your gear. I suggest you travel light. You’re going to need to be fast if you want to get out of the labyrinth alive.”

Dean makes his way over to the shelves with all the armour first. At the moment all he has on is the standard grey T-shirt, black pants and lace up boots that all gladiators wore. 

He pulls on a black leather vest that’s loose enough that it won’t restrict movement and also a couple of leather armguards that cover his forearms. He doesn’t bother with anything else. Balthazar is right; wearing any of the heavier armour is just going to hinder him in the labyrinth. 

He then picks out a round metallic shield and silver sword, weighing them in his hands before deciding they were manageable.

He’s the first one ready. Chuck is in the middle of strapping on some leg guards and The Avenger is deliberating over a couple of silver daggers hung on the wall. The newbie looks completely lost, just staring at the armour as though he’s not sure what any of it is for. Which, Dean realises, is actually quite possible.

The trainers are deep in conversation and don’t seem to have noticed the boys struggle so with a heavy sigh, Dean decides that just this once he will ignore his self-imposed rule of not talking to the new recruits and just help the boy gear up, even though the kid will in all likelihood be dead within the hour, no matter what he wears or brings with him.  
Dean joins his side and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Is this your first fight, kid?” 

It’s kind of a redundant question.

The boy just nods mutely.

“Alright well I recommend you wear all leather. Metal plates are just going to weigh you down and you don’t want that in the labyrinth.” Dean advises him, picking out the same armour he was wearing plus some leg guards just because the kid looks like he could use all the protection he can get.

“What about a helmet?” The boy asks hesitantly. 

“Do you see any of those in the room?” Dean replies, amused. “Sorry, Kid, no helmets. There are cameras throughout the maze and the angels like to be able to see our faces.”  
He boy pales a little. “Oh.”

Dean helps the kid get into the leather guarding and then brings him over to the weapons wall.

“You ever use a sword before?”

The kid shakes his head and Dean now knows for sure he’s talking to a dead man. 

“But I know how to shoot a crossbow. My Dad taught me.”

Maybe there is a little hope then. “Great! Okay, here…” Dean lifts off a sleek black cross bow with four silver tipped arrows already fitted into it. 

The boy takes it almost reverently and Dean turns to grab a couple of knives from the rack before tucking them into the kid’s belt. 

“In case, you run out of ammo.” He says. 

“Thanks,” the kid smiles. Actually smiles. And Dean suddenly remembers why he doesn’t talk to the newbies.

“No problem, kid,” he says gruffly.

“Kevin.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s not ‘kid’, it’s Kevin.” the boy says and Dean is really wishing he had just left him to fend for himself now.

“Right,” Dean mutters and retreats quickly before Kevin can ask for his name.

“You okay?” Chuck asks when Dean is close enough.

“Peachy,” Dean answers sourly and Chuck smiles in sympathy.

“Alright then, everybody ready?” Anna calls and everybody is.

They all follow her and Balthazar out of the armoury and through the tunnel that leads to the labyrinth which, unlike the battle arena, is underground. That way, the contestants cannot hear the commentary above and be forewarned of any coming danger.

“Now just to inform you,” Balthazar says. “The labyrinth has been changed since last time so don’t be going on what you remember of the last one. It won’t work.”

Chuck frowned a little but it didn’t bother Dean any, he couldn’t remember any of the last maze anyway.   
They came to a cross roads. 

“Prophet, Wild Child, come with me.” Anna says and begins to lead them down the left tunnel. Dean follows and tries to ignore the desperate look that Kevin gives him before he can turn away.

All the contestants start at different entrances to the maze and their objective is to reach the middle where there is a trapdoor that will lead them to safety. 

When they reach the first entrance, Anna announces this one will be Dean’s. 

Chuck grasps both of his shoulders and then pulls him into a quick embrace.

“See you in there. Save some monsters for me, okay?”

Dean grins. “You bet.”

And with that, Chuck is gone, led away further down the tunnel. 

Dean stands by his door with baited breath, waiting for the voice that will tell him that the tournament has begun.

Minutes drag by like hours and Dean’s nerves begin to fray a little, now that he is alone.

“Come on, Dean, don’t be a coward. You can do this.” He mutters. 

Finally the speaker behind him clicks and a deep voice declares. “Contestants, enter the labyrinth.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean begins to make his way through the labyrinth, meeting friend and foe along the way.

The moment the door slides open, Dean is hit by a blast of hot, dry air that instantly warms him right through to the bone. He can’t help but relish the feeling. It has been weeks since he felt anything but cold.

But even with the benefit of heat, the tunnel before him is dark and unwelcoming, lit only by small, circular lights built into the wall that give off an eerie green glow. 

Dean creeps forward, keeping his sword ready and his shield close to his body in case of an attack. He can’t see more than ten feet in front of him and he doesn’t trust the surrounding silence to mean that he is, even for a moment, safe.

The tunnel is long and it is several minutes before it splits into three different directions. 

This is where it got hard; deciding which way to go. 

He had heard once that if you just followed either the left wall or the right wall, you would eventually find the exit but if this maze was anything like the others then it would be at least three levels deep and each level would spread out for miles. 

And although there is no time limit to the challenge, the longer you are in the labyrinth, the more likely you are to get eaten by whatever creatures the angels have decided to put in there with you. 

Dean shakes his head, decides just to go with his gut for now and continues straight forward. The tunnel leads to a set of stairs that go down and Dean takes them, still keeping a wary eye out for any lurking danger. 

Then moment he reaches the bottom step, a scream rips through the air before being cut short. Dean recognises the cry instantly.

“Chuck!” he calls without thinking. It’s hard to know what direction the scream had come from. All the tunnels before him seemed to echo the sound. He races right and continues through a series of passageways so narrow, he has to travel sideways to make it out.

When the tunnel widens again, Dean has almost given up hope in finding his friend but then he hears a low groan coming from somewhere in front of him. 

He peers into the gloom as he slinks forward, spying a dark figure leaning heavily against a wall. 

“Chuck?” Dean whispers, hoping he isn’t just making himself an easier target for some monster.

“Who’s there?” returns a rasping voice. 

“It is you,” Dean sighs and darts forward. “Are you okay?”

Upon closer inspection, Chuck does not at all look okay. His face it ten shades paler than usual and is covered in a sheen of sweat. He’s clutching at his middle and Dean can see red seeping between the gaps of his fingers.

“What happened?” Dean gasps.

“Something took a swipe at me.” Chuck replies with a grimace. “I didn’t see what. It took off before I could get a good look.”

That in itself is odd, Dean thinks, monsters didn’t usually leave a gladiator alone until one of them was dead. But he isn’t going to question it if it meant that the creature had decided to let his friend live.

“How bad is it?” he motions towards the wound.

“Just a scratch. I’ll be fine.” Chuck replies, tiredly.

Dean doesn’t believe him. In fact, he’s pretty sure that Chuck is actually in shock but he doesn’t press the matter. “If it gets any worse, you let me know, okay?”

Chuck nods and Dean glances around at their surroundings, looking at the selection of tunnels they can take. “I don’t suppose your sixth sense, prophet thing has kicked in yet, has it?

“Are you kidding?” Chuck gives a little breathless chuckle. “How do you think I found you?”

“Um, actually, I found you. And only because you scream like a girl.” 

“Whatever. I know the way we need to go. Follow me.” Chuck heaves himself from the wall and takes a left turn. 

That’s when Dean realises there is something missing from his friends getup. “Where’s your shield?” he asks.

Chuck glances down as though surprised. “Huh, I must have…dropped it?” The way he poses this as a question does nothing to reassure Dean that Chuck is all right or that he’s actually clearheaded enough to be doing the decision making right now. 

“Right,” Dean replies, trying to act as though Chuck’s answer is perfectly acceptable but not quite able to put that much conviction in his voice. 

They carry on in silence for a while, weaving through so many different tunnels and passageways that Dean knows he could never navigate his way back now even if he wanted to. He’s completely lost. And that unnerves him.

“You sure you know where you’re going?” he finally decides to ask.

Chuck glances back briefly and frowns. “I’m ‘The Prophet’, remember? Of course I know where I’m going.” 

Dean doesn’t respond straight away and Chuck stops dead in his tracks to turn and face him, eyes hard and angry. “You don’t believe me?”

On the bright side, ‘angry Chuck’ looks a lot heathier than ‘just been wounded Chuck’. He is still sweating mightily but his colour is returning and the wound on his side doesn’t seem to be bleeding as heavily as it had been.

“I believe you,” Dean assures.

“No, you don’t. I can see it in your eyes.”

Dean sighs. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. Really. It’s just…it’s just me. This place has me all turned around. I’ve lost track of where we are.”

“And that sort of stupidity is why you’re the one with the crappy nickname,” Chuck smirks. “Just leave the thinking to me, okay, Wild Child?” 

Dean gapes at him. Chuck could be as sarcastic as the next man but he was never cruel. In all the time Dean had known him, Chuck had never said a mean word about anyone, except maybe the angels, but they deserved it. 

“What?” Chuck sneers. “Nothing to say? Come on, that’s not like you. You’re never quiet. You always have something clever to say. Come on, Dean, say something clever.”

Chuck raises his sword as he speaks and Dean can’t help stumbling back a step. He won’t hurt me, Dean tells himself. This is Chuck! Of course he won’t hurt me.

“Chuck, you’re not yourself right now. You’re injured -”

Chuck laughs but it is void of all humour. “That’s just it Dean. I am more myself right now than I have ever been. You know how Anna is always telling us how unhealthy it is to bottle up our feelings? Well, I’m expressing myself.” 

Chuck takes a step forward, sword still pointed at Dean’s chest. 

“Stop it, Chuck.” Dean says, backing away.

“Why? Am I scaring you?”

The way Chuck is leering at him really does have Dean feeling anxious but he refuses to admit as much. 

“You are such a coward,” Chuck snorts anyway. “What I ever did to deserve you as a cell mate, I’ll never know. I never should have protected you. I should have just left you to die in that first match we fought together. It would have saved me a whole bunch of trouble. Do you know how many times I’ve had to save your scrawny ass? Do you know how much sleep you’ve cost me with your endless nightmares?” 

Chuck’s words stab at Dean’s heart. 

“This isn’t you,” he insists.

“THIS IS ME!” Chuck roars. 

And then his eyes flash silver.

Realisation strikes Dean like a sledgehammer.

“You’re a shifter,” he whispers.

Chuck, or rather Fake-Chuck the evil shapeshifter, cackles madly. “Took you long enough.”

“Where’s Chuck? What have you done to him?” Dean growls.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about him. I really want you to focus on yourself right now. Cause’ I plan to take my sweet old time slicing, dicing and tearing you apart.” Fake-Chuck smiles as though he’s just suggested a friendly game of football.

Without further warning, the shifter lunges and swings his sword at Dean’s chest. 

Dean parries the blow and tries to stab the monster through the heart but he isn’t fast enough. 

Fake-Chuck dances out of the way just in time and laughs. “Is that all you’ve got, oh mighty gladiator?”

Dean growls and tries again. This time, the shifter doesn’t dodge the blade, just deflects it with his own and sends a fist flying into the side of Dean’s head.

A small cry of pain escapes Dean’s mouth as his head strikes brick wall. Black dots begin to pepper his vision and he hastily tries to blink them away. 

Before sight is fully returned to him, the cold touch of silver presses against his throat, not enough to break skin but enough to be a threat. 

“I really thought you would have put up more of a fight than this, Dean.” The shifter shakes his head is apparent disappointment. “Tell you what, I’ll give you one more chance to get out of this alive. I’m going to count to ten and you’re going to run and hide like the feeble little human you are. If you manage to get away, then good for you but if I catch you, there will be no more chances. I do whatever I want with you.” 

Dean grits his teeth. The monster wanted to play games with him now?

“One,” Fake Chuck begins, backing up against the opposite wall to let Dean pass. “Two.”

Dean hauls himself to his feet and runs without any real direction. He just sprints as fast as his legs will allow and hopes he doesn’t come across a dead end.

Soon enough he hears the shifter sing out the number ten and then the clatter of another set of feet as he gives chase. Dean flies through the tunnel to his right and for one dreadful moment, he thinks he really has run into a dead end but then he sees a hole in the middle of one of the walls. 

It’s not very big, about the size of a small manhole but it’s big enough for him to army crawl through. He rushes over to it and peers inside but sees nothing but darkness. He has no idea how far it goes and he wonders frantically whether it will take him away from the shifter or just trap him further. 

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” The shifter calls, still using that falsetto singing voice. 

He’s getting closer and Dean swears under his breath, realising he doesn’t really have a choice any more. He slips his sword into his belt and drops his shield, knowing there is no way it will fit.

As he slides himself forward into the small tunnel, the acrid stench of decay hits his nose and he tries hard not to gag as he shuffles onward, quickly and quietly.   
“Oh where are you, my pretty?” the shifter calls out, unsettlingly close. 

Dean ignores him, concentrating only on the darkness before his eyes and praying he will see a spot of light any moment now. 

“Did you go into the scary, dark tunnel, Dean?” 

Dean jumps and curses when his head hits the top of the tunnel. By the sounds of it, the shifter is stood right outside the tunnel entrance.

“I guess you really got away from me,” the shifter says. “Don’t worry, I won’t be following you through there. What would be the point? I doubt there will be much left for me once the ghouls are done with you.”

Before Dean has the chance to process the words properly, the tunnel branches out. He can’t see it but he can feel the sudden space on either side of him as well as right in front of him. 

The feeling of extra space lasts barely a second before clammy hands shoot out from both sides. One pair gripping onto his arm, and another scrabbling at his side. Ghouls.  
He yells out and yanks himself forward, trying to free himself from their grasping hands. He only manages to make it a couple of feet when one hand grabs hold of his foot and another hastily pulls up his trouser leg. 

Dean screams when he feels the sharp bite of teeth as they sink into his lower calf and he kicks out, forcing the ghoul to release his leg so he can scramble forward again.  
He almost sobs in relief when a white pinprick comes into view. 

It’s light! A light at the end of the tunnel. Dean laughs out loud at the thought. 

He keeps crawling, focussing only on getting to the light before the ghouls catch him again.

He almost makes it too. 

He reaches the edge of the tunnel and is about to pull himself over and onto the ground outside when hands fasten around his legs and wrench him back into the darkness. He feels teeth latch onto his calf again but this time, the ghoul doesn’t even try to move the fabric of his pants out of the way. 

With a cry Dean lashes out again but the ghoul has a tighter grip of him this time and it barely loosens its hold. 

Dean goes to kick again when arms suddenly shoot towards him from the hole of light and a new pair of hands, decidedly human looking hands, grab hold of his forearms and yank him forward. 

For a moment, Dean feels as though he is being torn in two, neither set of hands prepared to relinquish their grip but eventually the hands on his arms prove the stronger of the two as he is pulled away from the gnashing teeth and clammy hold of the ghouls, and emerges into the light.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his life is saved, Dean continues through the labyrinth with his unlikely hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I am SO sorry I took so long writing another chapter. Writer’s block is a terrible thing. But I have everything mapped out now for both my stories so hopefully it’ll be smooth running from here on out. Fingers crossed!

Dean’s feet have barely touched the ground when he is viciously pulled forward by his saviour, who screams at him to “Run!”

Out of his peripheral vision he sees the ghouls scrambling out of the tunnel after them and he picks up his pace, eager to put as much distance as he can between himself and the man-eating creatures. 

They run through a long series of twisting passages before they finally come to a stop, bending over double and heaving hot air into painful lungs.

“Are you okay?” His rescuer gasps and Dean glances up to look at who it is that had actually saved him. 

When he sees the fresh, young face of Kevin gazing back at him, he can’t help but gape.

“You?” he pants back. “You’re still alive?”

Even as breathless as he is, Kevin still manages to look vaguely insulted. “I’m not that easy to kill off,” he mutters. 

“Sorry,” Dean amends quickly. “What I mean to say is…thank you. I owe you one. I’d be ghoul chow right now if it wasn’t for you.”

“That’s what those things were?”

Dean nods and wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand. It was getting hotter, the deeper into the labyrinth he got and all this added exercise wasn’t helping. He’d do anything for a glass of water right about now. 

“I saw a vampire a while back. At least, I thought I did…but I guess if you’re sure that it’s ghouls in this place -”

“It’s not just ghouls,” Dean interrupts. “There is always more than one type of monster in the maze. Makes it more interesting for our viewers. In all probability you did see a vampire. There are also shifters down here.” 

A sudden unwelcome thought hits him and he cuts himself off with a sigh, remorsefully pulling the sword from his belt.

“Speaking of shifters…” he takes a small step towards Kevin, who seems to notice the sudden change in atmosphere and takes his own step back, eyeing the blade suspiciously. One of his arms twitches back towards the crossbow he had hooked over his shoulder.

“I’m not gonna’ hurt you, Kid, I just need to test you real quick. Make sure you’re you and not some shifter.” Dean explains softly, firmly taking Kevin by the wrist.

Kevin’s eyes go wide when the sword is pressed against the flesh of his forearm but he holds still. 

Dean cuts him. It’s just a small, shallow cut but it is enough to draw blood.

Kevin winces. 

Dean watches.

The wound just trickles blood. No fizzing or smoking or anything else equally unnatural. 

“You’re you.” Dean declares with a grin. He wipes the sword on his pants before slicing a small cut on his own arm. “And I’m me, just in case you were wondering.”

Kevin just stares at him, eyes pained and accusing. “That is so unsanitary! What is wrong with you? Why would you do that?”

What with the daring rescue and all, Dean had almost forgotten the kid is new at this, that he doesn’t know about the different strengths and weaknesses of all the supernatural forces.

“This sword is made of silver,” he explains. “And silver is a shifter’s greatest weakness.”

“Wait, you thought I was a shifter? But I just saved you.” Kevin sounds suitably incensed.

Dean shrugs and tries to look apologetic. “Better safe than sorry. I ran into Chuck earlier…or, at least, I thought I had run into Chuck but it was actually a shifter just trying to mess with my head.” 

“Chuck…that’s your friend’s name, right? The one they call ‘The prophet’?”

“One and the same,” Dean confirms. 

“I remember my uncle telling me a story about shifters once. He told me they take on the forms of people they’ve killed. Do you think…”

“I don’t know what to think,” Dean cuts in quickly. The possibility of what could have happened to Chuck is too painful a thought and he can’t afford to think about it right now. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Chuck after all these years, it’s that he’s a survivor. There’s no way he would have been taken down by a single shifter.”

There is an otherworldly shriek from somewhere behind them and Dean quickly claps Kevin on the shoulder and marches in the opposite direction of the sound. “Now let’s find our way out of here. I don’t know about you but I want to be back in time for dinner.” 

With a low chuckle, Kevin starts to follow. 

Ten minutes later, Dean is struggling to keep up the pace. The leg that had been bitten is throbbing painfully in time with his racing pulse. The bottom of the pant leg feels abnormally wet, drenched even, and he’s beginning to think that the wound there may be worse than he had originally thought. 

It doesn’t take long for Kevin to notice. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Dean grits his teeth and nods, “Never better.”

“We should take a break.” 

“We need to keep moving.”

“But you’re leaving a trail.” Kevin argues.

Dean turns sharply and sure enough there are spots of blood dotting the ground behind him, creating an all too easy to follow trail. “Dammit,” he grunts. 

“Here, let me take a look.” Kevin suggests and kneels at Dean’s feet without waiting for a response. 

Carefully, he rolls the pant leg up to Dean’s knee and inspects the back of his leg, wincing in sympathy. “That ghoul took a real chunk out of you.”

Dean glances down at it as best he can in his position but all he can see is a red mess. 

Kevin tears off the bottom of his shirt, the part that isn’t covered by his leather vest, and begins to bind it tight around the injured leg. “This is pretty much all we can do for it right now. We’ll have to clean it when we get out.”

When we get out. Dean loves the kid’s optimism.

“So long as it stops me bleeding all over everything, I’m good.” Dean tells him. “Thanks.”

“It’s not a problem,” Kevin replies, expertly tying the makeshift bandage off as though he’s done this a thousand times before. Dean makes a mental note to later ask the kid what he used to do before he was taken to the colosseum. 

“Hey, I never did catch your name.” Kevin says as he stands back up. He says it casually enough but Dean knows he has been burning to ask this question since their encounter in the armoury.

“It’s Dean,” Dean tells him and the kid practically glows upon hearing the name, like it’s the best news he’s heard all day. 

They start off again, much slower this time, but run into several dead ends and have to keep back tracking. When they hit their fifth one, Dean feels about ready to bash his head against the nearest wall in frustration. 

“Maybe we should go further back.” Kevin suggests. “We might have missed an earlier passage.” 

“Awesome,” Dean groans, throwing his head back in despair before blinking in surprise. “Oh.”

Directly above them is another small tunnel, much like the one he had crawled through earlier, only this time it travels directly upwards and has a ladder running through it. Unfortunately, the ladder only runs from where the tunnel starts and is going to be significantly hard to reach. 

Kevin glances up as well and blanches. “You don’t think…?” 

“I do think.” 

“There is no way I can reach that far.” 

“I can give you a leg up.” Dean offers.

“But that means I have to go first. What if it’s like the last one? What if there are ghouls in there?”

The kid has a point, Dean concedes, in all probability there will be more ghouls up there. The whole point of the labyrinth was to kill off the contestants in horrible, gruesome ways, and getting mauled to death by ravenous ghouls whilst attempting to climb a ladder in the dark would definitely be a bloody way to go. It would be right up the angels’ street. 

“I can’t do it, Dean.” Kevin says, pale and shaking like he thinks Dean will force him to anyway. 

But there is no way Dean could do that. He knows if something were to happen to the kid on his watch, he would never be able to live with himself afterwards. If there was an afterwards.

“I can go first,” a new voice volunteers from behind them. 

Kevin gasps, reaching for his crossbow and Dean whirls, bringing up his sword to ward off a blow that never actually comes. 

“I come in peace,” the newcomer says quickly, raising her hands even though the act does nothing but emphasise the fact that she’s holding onto two very lethal looking daggers. “It’s just me.”

Dean glares and keeps his weapon poised for attack as he takes in the form of The Avenger. She seems to have fared pretty well so far. She’s sporting a pretty nasty black eye and a split lip but there doesn't seem to be any life threatening injuries. 

He must have been staring too long as she suddenly tilts her head to the side and grins darkly. “See something you like, hon?”

Dean scoffs. “No offence, lady, but you look like you’ve just gone ten rounds with a golem. It’s not something that really turns me on. I’m just trying to figure out if you are who you say you are.”

“Oh, so you’ve seen them too, huh? Those shifters really are a nuisance.” Avenger says as she brings one of her daggers down to her arm and slices into it. “See? All me.” She grins at them again. “Your turn. A girl can’t be too careful.”

Dean rolls his eyes but gives himself another shallow cut to prove he’s human, then turns to Kevin and holds out his hand.

Kevin blinks. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Fair is fair,” Dean shrugs.

Kevin grumbles but puts his hand in Dean’s and allows the older man to cut him for a second time.

Once they’ve all established they are who they say they are, The Avenger begins to work on reaching the ladder. She’s taller than Kevin but still shorter than Dean by a few inches. Her first couple of attempts to grasp the bottom rung fail but when Dean offers to give her a leg up, she just waves him away, too proud to accept any help.

On her third attempt, she makes an impressive leap into the air and grabs onto the ladder with both hands. 

With a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a cry of victory, she pulls herself further up until she’s barely visible to the men below.

“You’re next, kid.” Dean tells Kevin. “Come here.”

Kevin steps closer and Dean squats, wraps his arms around Kevin’s knees and then stands, lifting the kid up with ease.

Kevin lets out an undignified squawk and grabs hold of Dean’s shoulders to keep his balance. “Little warning would be nice,” he whines and Dean can’t help the smirk that pulls at his lips.

It takes a bit of manoeuvring and a whole load of griping from Kevin but eventually Dean manages to lift the kid up high enough for him to reach the ladder and start climbing. 

Dean follows, jumping up in the same way Avenger had, disregarding the twinge of pain that shoots up his calf, and climbing into the darkness.

It’s unsettling; being completely blind to your surroundings when you know with an almost surety that there is something in there with you that wants to eat you alive but Dean forces himself to ignore the unease and focus of climbing the ladder, one rung at a time, whilst avoiding being kicked in the head by Kevin, who really isn’t going fast enough for his liking.

But his worry diminishes when he hears The Avenger whisper, “There’s a light up ahead,” and a minute later, Dean is pulling himself through the tunnel exit and looking around at his new surroundings. 

They stand in a dimly lit corridor that splits into two different directions. The walls are lined with stone gargoyles; hideous, grey carvings with misshapen wings, claws and bulging eyes that seem to follow them wherever they move. 

The heat up here is searing and Dean swears he can feel the skin on his arms burn slightly. His eyes sting in the sudden dryness of the atmosphere and his lungs seem to be working overtime as they struggle to find enough oxygen in the thin air he breathes in. 

“I think we must be on the right track,” Avenger grins as she glances around. “But which way now, I wonder?” 

She closes her eyes for a moment before snapping them back open again. “We go right.” 

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Not at all,” she replies breezily. But it’s as good a way as any, right? Come on, boys, let’s get out of here.”

Kevin and Dean glance at each other but then shrug. They might as well follow. Avenger is right. 

It’s as good a way as any.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t even begin to tell you how much trouble this chapter has given me. I kept getting carried away and then when it came to reading it, I found it wasn’t going in the direction I needed it to and had to rewrite it all again. But it’s here now! Yay! I’m going to go reward myself with a much needed cup of ice because my room is a furnace…I hate summer. Anyhow, hope you enjoy the chapter.

“I keep thinking one of them is going to come to life and eat us. Do you think that could happen? Is that a thing?”

It’s the third time Kevin has voiced his concern over the ever growing number of gargoyles they pass in the corridor.

“Do we think ugly lumps of poorly conceived stonemasonry coming to life and chowing down on people is a thing?” Dean mused, tapping a finger against his chin. “Well I don’t know. Avenger, what do you think?”

“Oh, it’s definitely a thing.” Avenger smirked. “They watch and wait for the smallest in the group to fall behind and then WHAM!”

Kevin jumps.

“The small one is gone.” Avenger finishes in a secretive whisper.

“I hear they’re especially partial to young virgin boys.” Dean elaborates and he and Avenger howl with laughter at the startled look of embarrassment that washes over Kevin’s face, lighting his cheeks flame red.

“I hate you both,” he mutters.

“Please, you love us.” Avenger corrects him, pinching his cheek as though he were an adorable, little toddler before striding forward to lead the way down another passageway. 

It’s been all of two minutes before Kevin starts up again. “You don’t have to make fun of me. I mean, think about it. We have vampires and shifters and ghouls down here. And out there we have ghosts and demons and angels. Actual, honest to goodness angels. I don’t see why you think live gargoyles are such a farfetched idea.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s not a farfetched idea, kid, but bringing a gargoyle to life would require some serious witchy mojo and angels hate witches. Can’t stand them or their skeevy, black magic. There’s no way they would work together and that’s how I know we’re safe. Really, you can stop worrying.”

Kevin huffs but finally drops the subject and Dean goes back to silently evaluating their situation.

They are all still in relatively good condition considering they are nearing the labyrinth’s end, especially Kevin, who doesn’t seem to have been so much as touched so far. As for weapons, Kevin still has his daggers and all of his arrows, Avenger has her two blades and Dean has his sword. None of them have anything beyond their leather armour for protection and Dean can only hope that that will be enough. 

“How’s your leg holding up?” Kevin suddenly whispers.

Dean shrugs as though his leg doesn’t burn with every step. “It’s not bad. I think I’ll live. Why do you ask?”

“Because I think we’re going to need to run soon.”

“Why?” 

“Because one of the gargoyles just moved.”

Annoyance flashes through Dean. “Oh for the love of…the gargoyles aren’t alive!”

“Uh, guys…” Avenger calls from just ahead of them. 

Dean peers into the shadows before him and stumbles to a stop. 

There really is something moving.

“Holy…” he breathes.

Whatever it is, it’s moving fast. Scarily fast. And it’s roaring at them. 

No wait, it’s not roaring, it’s shouting. But the words are thick and indistinguishable. 

As the dark figure draws closer, it takes on human shape and the words become clearer.

“Run!” the figure screams. “Get out of here. Now!” 

Kevin’s eyes widen. “Isn’t that...?”

“Chuck.” Dean nods.

The three of them back away a little, weapons raised and ready, unsure of whether they should listen to Chuck’s orders or jump on him the moment he gets too close. 

“Shifter?” Avenger asks though no one can answer that for sure.

“You gotta’ run,” Chuck continues to bellow. “Dragons!” 

The moment, the last word leaves his mouth, there’s an almighty, thundering roar from somewhere behind him, so loud it hurts their ears and rattles their bones. 

Suddenly, it doesn’t matter if Chuck is a shifter or not because whatever is chasing him is so, so much worse. 

Chuck’s almost upon them when they turn tail and run, ducking to their left into a passage they hadn’t bothered to explore earlier. 

A hand falls on Dean’s shoulder and he turns briefly to find Chuck grinning at him fondly. “Good to see you’re still alive and kicking.”

“You too,” Dean replies, quickly assessing his friend for any injuries. He finds nothing beyond a bit of bruising but realises that Chuck is armed only with a shield. He turns back to focus on where he’s going. “Where’s your sword?”

“Funny story actually…”

“You can catch up later,” Avenger interrupts them. “Just shut up and keep running.”

They take a left and stop dead in their tracks as the passage opens out into a huge chamber and an invisible wall of searing heat slams into them. 

The cobble stone they have become accustomed to running across smooths out into pure white, marble flooring. Pillars of Gold and stone reach up towards a ceiling that seems to be half a mile high. The walls around them are almost fully obscured by a thick, scorching barrier of fire that somehow gives off no smoke, and Dean knows instantly that this room is what heats the rest of the labyrinth.

“This is it, right?” Avenger asks, looking around in awe.

“The way out is in here somewhere.” Chuck affirms. “Let’s find it before our new friends find us.”

And that’s what they set out to do but they’ve only taken a few steps into the chamber when there’s a rumbling growl behind them.

Dean has never faced a dragon before and to his knowledge, none of the other gladiators had either but he remembers what they are supposed to look like from some of the cartoons and films he’d watched when he was younger. 

Dragons were supposed to be huge creatures with scales and wings and fangs and claws so when he turns to face them, he’s a little surprised to find two humans creeping towards them.

One of them is male and stands well over six feet tall. He’s broadly built and completely bald, with hard eyes that seemed to glow red in the light of the fire. 

The other is female and a lot smaller, with long, flowing red hair and the yellow, slitted eyes of a snake.

Dean briefly wonders if Chuck is mistaken about their identity or if all his childhood stories had got it wrong. Sure, these guys are creepy looking but they’re not at all what he had pictured. 

“Looks like we’ve hit the jackpot, sweetheart,” the woman purrs, eyes fixed on Kevin, who quakes under her gaze. “We’ve got ourselves a virgin.”

Dean blinks in surprise, “Huh, told you that you’d get into trouble for that,” he informs the younger boy. 

“Shut up, Dean.” Kevin still manages to blush, even in his fear.

“Too bad it’s male,” the man grumbles, ignoring Dean entirely.

“I’m sure it’ll taste just as good as the others, my love. We can’t afford to be picky now.”

“What about the other three?” 

They both switched their glares to Dean, Chuck and The Avenger.

“They look like they’ll make good sport,” the woman hisses and without further warning they both launch themselves forward, aiming for the ones they have labelled ‘sport’. 

The man hurdles into Chuck, knocking him over and jumps on top of Avenger, whilst the woman saunters gracefully towards Dean. 

“Well, aren’t you a tasty looking thing?” she simpers. “Almost makes we want to rethink the whole virgin diet.”

“I’m flattered, lady, really.” Dean reasons. “But trust me, I’m all bones and sinew. I’d taste real nasty.”

“Shame,” the woman flashes a grin that’s all teeth and suddenly she’s on top of Dean.

He doesn’t even see her move, it’s so sudden. One moment she’s a good five feet away and the next she’s crashing into him, hands grabbing his arms in a crushing grip that’s far too strong for someone her size, snapping her teeth towards his neck in an attempt to bite into him.

He goes down under her weight but manages to free his sword arm and without a second’s thought, thrusts his weapon forward. He isn’t too sure how he’s supposed to kill a dragon but poking her full of holes seems like a good enough start.

But the dragon is quick as well as strong. She shifts her body out of the way at the last possible moment and catches the blade in her hand. 

Dean expects blood. That’s the usual result of pulling a stupid move like grabbing the sharp end of a moving sword but there isn’t any. 

The woman doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she just throws Dean a vaguely irritated glance and then the hand that’s holding the blade begins to glow red. 

Within seconds, the sword is red too and there’s a faint sound of sizzling. Pain flares across Dean’s palm and with a yelp, he drops the scalding weapon but it was too late to save his hand from the burn, he can already feel the skin there begin to blister.

And now, on top of that, he feels naked. He’s never been completely disarmed before, never been without some form of protection when facing an opponent.

“Neat trick, huh?” the woman says, smiling brightly before bringing her hand down towards his neck.

It’s just an inch away from his throat when suddenly there’s a sound like rushing air and an arrow firmly embeds itself in her arm. 

The woman rears back with a screech and turns to glare at Kevin and his crossbow. The boy stares back at her, wide eyed, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s just done.   
Dean kicks her off him whilst she’s distracted and scrambles towards his frozen friend. 

“Fine,” he hears the woman growl. “I guess we could always have our dinner first.” 

For a moment, she is still, eerily calm as she watches them and then she lets out an inhuman shriek as she arches forward, spine curling at an impossible angle and then she’s growing. Bigger and bigger with every passing second. Her skin begins to darken to grey and it thickens to look like old leather. 

Dean can hear her bones snap and shift inside her as she hunches further forward, face elongating, teeth sharpening to fangs, the beginnings of bony wings protruding out of her back.

There’s another explosive roar from behind them and Dean realises the same thing is happening to the man.

Chuck and Avenger are stood beside one another, Avenger leaning heavily on her companion as they back away quickly. 

Dean thinks that’s an excellent idea and he grabs Kevin’s wrist.

“Run,” he tells him and it seems the younger boy needs no further encouragement. 

The two turn and sprint away from the dragons as fast as their legs will carry them. 

Chuck and Avenger quickly follow suit but at a slightly slower pace. 

“We’ve got to find a way out of here,” Chuck yells.

“Working on it,” Dean calls back, scanning the area as he moves, trying to locate the allusive trapdoor he knows is supposed to be in here somewhere and then he see it. 

“There!” he cries, pointing to the far end of the cavern where he can just about make out the outline of a four foot wide hole in the ground.

It’s certainly not as inviting as a trapdoor and set of stairs would be but it’s the only way out of the cavern he can see except for the tunnel they just came through.

Something about seeing the exit in front of them seems to spur them on, giving them the boost of strength they need to move even faster.

The excitement that bubbles within Dean abruptly disappears though when a large shadows falls swiftly over them. He looks up and can’t help but gulp at the sight of two dragons circling above them.

They’re a lot bigger in this form than they were as humans, with fangs as long and sharp as any sword, and claws to match. 

They’re still not exactly as Dean imagined them, since they also had the look of a bat, but they come awful close. 

One of them suddenly swoops down and before anyone has the time to react, Kevin is snatched up off the ground.

He screams and flails around, trying to free himself from its grip but he is held fast. 

“No!” Dean cries and quickly turns, ready to race after the dragons that were now flying away with the only prey they were actually concerned about. 

Chuck also stops, anxious gaze flickering from Kevin to The Avenger and then back to Kevin again, obviously torn over who to help first.

Dean makes the decision for him. “Go,” he shouts. “You guys get out of here now. I’ve got this.” 

He’s not actually a hundred percent sure that he has in fact got this but Avenger is in a bad way and he wants to at least make sure that two of his friends make it out of the labyrinth alive.

“But - ” Chuck starts.

“I’ve got this.” Dean repeats firmly. 

Chuck frowns but accepts it this time. “Here,” he says and throws over his shield. “You’ll need this.” 

Dean nods in thanks and dashes after the retreating dragons. 

Kevin is still yelling loudly, calling out obscene curses that impress even Dean but he’s not just flailing wildly about anymore. He’s got one of his daggers in hand and is stabbing it repeatedly into his captors’ foot. It seems to do be having some sort of effect. 

The dragon snarls and begins to descend rapidly, the other following closely behind and Dean can’t help but worry that Kevin’s just brought dinner time forward by a few minutes.   
“Hey!” he hollers as he runs towards them. “Over here.”

The dragons don’t pay him any attention. When they’re about ten feet from the ground, the one carrying Kevin, abruptly drops him and Dean hears the breath whoosh out of him when he hits the ground.

The boy curls up and writhes about on the floor, mouth wide open and unable to breathe.

Dean knows the feeling of having the breath knocked out of you all too well. It’s happened to him a few times in the past but the first time was by far the scariest. He can still remember how his breath abruptly left his lungs when another gladiator slammed his shield into his chest during training. He remembered trying to heave some air back in but it was like his body had completely forgotten how to breathe and so instead he just squirmed around and gaped like a landed fish until his lungs unfroze and he gasped in a mouthful of the sweetest oxygen he’d ever tasted. 

But this time is different. They don’t have time to wait for Kevin’s lungs to rediscover breathing. 

Dean shoots forward, smashing his shield into the lead dragon’s face as it dives forward once again. 

It shrieks and falls back as Dean grabs Kevin, hoists him hurriedly over his shoulder, pausing briefly to pick up his shield again, before running back towards the hole.  
He can hear the flap of dragon wings above him but doesn’t dare look up.

The way out is within reach. He can see it. Can practically taste the freedom.

“Dean,” Kevin gasps above him, having finally caught his breath back.

“It’s going to be okay,” Dean tells him. “Just hold on.”

A gust of hot air hits his back, alerting him to the presence of at least one dragon right behind him. 

But they’re at the hole now. They can get out. Dean leaps forward, sees the hole directly below him and knows he’s made it… 

Something crashes into his side and bites down. He screams as he feels long fangs stab into his stomach and lower back and he drops Kevin, watches briefly as the boy falls gracelessly down the hole, before he is flung ruthlessly to the side and the sound of angry roars fills his ears. 

His back hits a pillar and he hears a snap but doesn’t know if it comes from him or the stone. There’s too much pain already. 

The dragons fly frenziedly high above him, apparently upset over their loss of a good meal. They slam themselves against the pillar again and again, breathing great gusts of fire out with every roar and every grunt. 

Dean can feel the pillar shake with each assault, can hear the stones and slabs of gold begin to crumble and shift, hears the patter of the smaller pieces of rock as they fall out of place completely and litter floor around him. 

In one terrible moment, Dean understands what the dragons intend to do. Knows the fate they have decided for him. 

He tries to pull himself away but it’s too late. Both dragons fly in unison, giving the pillar one last almighty shove before letting forth a stream of blue fire that sears Dean’s skin even from his place on the ground. 

He watches in horror as the pillar crumbles completely. Stones, large and small, plummet towards him and the gold, now molten from the heat of the fire rains down on him in a deadly shower.

He ducks down and raises the shield above him, trying in vain to protect himself from the endless onslaught but the barrage is too much and within only seconds he is crushed under the weight of burning rocks and his vision turns black.

**********************************************************************************************************************************

Pain.

Fiery, burning torment.

Dean is sure he’s in hell when he wakes. 

He can barely move, can barely see, can smell nothing but the stench of burnt flesh and a thick cloying scent that seems to clog his lungs with every intake of breath. 

But then he remembers. 

The labyrinth. 

The dragons. 

The pillar. 

And with a jolt, he realises he’s still alive. Buried under a pile of rock but still alive. 

He wills himself into motion. Clawing at the surrounding stones, wincing as they burn his skin but forcing himself upwards regardless, using his shield to protect his head and body.

After what feels like hours but can have only been minutes, Dean breaks through into the light of the cavern.

It’s silent except for the crackle of flames and the dragons are no longer in sight. 

With a groan, Dean drags himself out from under the weight of the rocks and slides bonelessly down the pile, landing in a heap at the bottom.

The marble floor is gloriously cool upon his skin and he almost loses consciousness again with the relief of it but he forces himself onward, crawling and sliding across the ground, trying not to notice the charred, blackened skin of his arms or the fact that he can see the bones in his hands or the way he can only see out of his right eye. 

He focuses only on the hole before him, instinct telling him that as long as he makes it out of the labyrinth, everything would be okay.

After a painstakingly long time, Dean finally makes it to the edge of the hole and peers down tiredly. He can’t see an end to it but he can feel cold air blow up to him from below and that is enough. 

He pushes himself forward over the edge and falls headfirst into the dark abyss.


	6. Chapter 6

"…eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Ready or not, here I come." Dean calls out in a singsong voice, removing his small hands from his face and looking about the kitchen for tell-tale signs of his younger brother.

He sees none but checks under the table anyway because Sammy is six and doesn't understand that he's supposed to find more than one hiding space in this game. This time however, the dark space under the table is clear and Dean grins.

Finally, a challenge.

He races out of the kitchen and into the adjoining living room, looking behind the curtains, the sofa, the chairs and still no sign of Sam.

The dining room is clear too.

Dean steps into the corridor and immediately trips over something big and bulky. He crashes to the floor and burns his elbows on the cream carpet but picks himself up quickly, looks back at the offending obstacle and screams.

Sprawled out across the floor with his mouth agape and eyes void of all life is his father, neck and head hanging in a way that quite clearly isn't natural.

"Dad…" Dean whimpers, falling to his knees once more and shaking his father's shoulders even though he knows there's no point.

Something about this seems familiar, like Dean has seen this before, but his mind is too busy freaking out to make sense of the feeling of déjà vu.

"Dean,"

The boy gasps and snaps his attention from his trembling hands to his Dad's face.

"Dean, find Sam." John says and although his mouth is moving, is groaning out words, the rest of him is motionless and cold, eyes still as blank as before. Still dead. "Find Sam. Before it's too late."

"Dad, I - "

The telephone suddenly rings, it's screeching trill abruptly cutting him off.

Dean whirls and stares at the phone on the small table next to him, heart beating in his throat. It rings seven times before he is able to will himself to pick up the receiver.

"H-Hello?"

The line crackles quietly but there is no answer. He tries again.

"Anyone there?"

For a moment there is only white noise but then he hears the small, strained voice. "Dean?"

Dean's heart leaps. "Sammy?"

"Where are you? You said you'd find me. Why haven't you found me?"

The question stirs up vague painful memories that he can't fully grasp. He remembers calling out to his brother, promising to come back for him as he was carried away. But when was that? Why does he remember that?

"I'm trying, Sammy. I'm trying. Where are you?"

Sam whimpers on the other end. "I don't know. It's too dark. I can't see."

Dean casts his mind to the darkest place he can think of and suddenly he knows where he has to go.

The storage room in the basement is always dark, with only one bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, never able to glow bright enough to light up much more than the patch of floor directly below it.

"I'm coming for you, Sammy. Hold on."

He keeps a hold of the phone as he runs down the corridor, hurries down the stairs and then goes through the first door on the right, knowing that that is where he'll find Sam.

The storage room is pretty much the family dumping ground. Boxes of memorabilia, old photos, letters, journals, drawings, boxes of food storage for just in case. This was where it all went so Dean is surprised when he enters an almost empty space. The only thing left was a lone, full length mirror standing at the far end in the gloom.

Panic creeps in. Sam isn't here after all. He was wrong.

"Dean?"

Dean brings the phone closer to his ear before he realises the voice didn't come from there.

He looks up sharply and Sam stands at the mirror, eyes wide with hope, a small smile lighting up his young face.

"Sam!" Dean exclaims and rushes forward, only to be met with a glass barrier. Sam wasn't standing in front of the mirror. He was standing in it.

"What the - " Dean growls, hands shoving at the unrelenting glass, trying to find some way through.

"You have to get me out of here, Dean. He's going to be back any moment." Sam whispers urgently.

"Who's going to be back any moment?"

"Dean, please!"

"I'm trying," Dean cries, still pushing uselessly against the mirror. "Who's coming? Sammy, who did this to you?"

A man suddenly materialises behind Sam. Tall, dark and terrifying in every way.

"I did." Uriel says.

******************************************************************************************************************************

Dean wakes up screaming. Raw, agonised sounds tearing through his already aching throat. There are hands on him, pressing down, pushing against his flailing limbs and it hurts so bad. So bad he's sure it's going to kill him.

He can hear voices shouting to each other all around him and although he can hear the words, he can't make any sense of them.

"…not going to make it…"

"…where are the healers…"

"…can't believe he's even alive right now…"

"…where are they…"

"…put him out of his misery…"

"…WHERE ARE THE HEALERS?"

Dean feels himself losing his grip on his consciousness and he welcomes the painless bliss it brings as he slowly sinks back into oblivion.

******************************************************************************************************************************

When he comes to once again, he's lying on a hard bed with a thin sheet pulled up to his waist. The air around him is cool against his heated skin and smells strongly of cleaning agents and latex, so powerful he can taste it.

But even with the over powering stench, Dean can't help but silently revel in the feeling of comfort that envelopes him. He knows he should be in pain but he doesn't worry about the distinct lack of it. He's too tired to care. Sleep is much more important than stressing out over things he can't control…

"You're awake." a voice to his left states.

Dean groans softly. He's been found out. Feigning sleep is no longer an option.

Friggin' angels.

He snaps his eyes open, gazes up at the blank white ceiling and bright fluorescent lighting for a moment before turning to the man sitting in a chair by his side.

He's fairly old, somewhere in his late fifties, if Dean has to guess, with a mass of curly grey hair and deep set wrinkles. He's kind of short looking and Dean can't help but be reminded of one of those small creatures he read about once in a book he 'borrowed' from school all those years back. What were they called again? Oh yeah...

"Hobbits," Dean murmurs softly before freezing as he realises he spoke out loud.

The man frowns in confusion but doesn't question the odd choice of first words.

"Welcome back to the land of the living." he says instead. "We very almost lost you back there."

"How long have I - "

"Been asleep?" the man finishes for him. "Not long. Only an hour or so. Would you like to sit up?"

No, Dean would not like to sit up, thank you very much. He'd actually very much like to go back to sleep but he has a feeling that isn't going to happen any time soon.

So Dean just nods and the small man pulls him up into a seated position with surprising ease. And whilst the man is hoisting him up, Dean realises that it's not just that he isn't in pain anymore, it's that there is no reason for him to be in pain anymore. He's no longer in his gladiator uniform…probably because it had all but been burned off him earlier, and is instead dressed in a flimsy white hospital gown that bares his arms. Arms that are no longer charred black and red but are whole and healthy, unmarred by the unsightly burns that were there just a little earlier. He stares at them in wonder before feeling at his neck and face and is relieved when his fingers touch only smooth skin with the beginnings of stubble across his jaw.

"How?" Dean asks simply.

"I healed you," the man replies. "You're welcome, by the way."

"But…" Dean doesn't understand. There is no way he should even be alive right now, never mind fully conscious with not a single scratch on him.

"I healed everything." The man continues. "Your new wounds, your old scars. You should count yourself lucky. We don't typically use our healing powers on humans. We - "

"Wait," Dean interrupts. "You have healing powers? Like…like magic healing powers?"

The man cocks his head to the side in consideration before nodding slightly. "I suppose you could look at it that way. But there's nothing really magic about it. It's a gift that all angels are born with."

"Of course it is," Dean mutters, thinking about all the scars and deaths that could have been avoided if the angels hadn't been too spitefully proud to use their 'gift' on a mere human.

There were angels within the colosseum who were medically trained to treat sick and injured humans. They were called 'healers' but they didn't perform miracles like this man.

Usually, when a gladiator was injured, the healers would just patch them up as quickly as possible and send them off to their cells to rest.

Dean's in the med bay right now. It's not a huge room, housing only six beds, and it's only ever used in extreme circumstances so despite the numerous times he's been injured throughout his life , Dean's only actually seen this place once before when he was twelve and had the great misfortune of getting appendicitis.

"But you saved me?" Dean prompts, wanting to understand the reason as to why he was still breathing.

"I did. There's something about you. I couldn't just let you die like that."

Dean glances back at the man and for the first time notices a sharp gleam in his eyes that sets him immediately on edge.

"What's so special about me?"

"I feel a something of a connection to you. I can't quite explain it."

Neither can Dean. He feels no such connection.

The man continues, speaking with increasing fervour. "I watched you in the labyrinth; how you fought to stay alive, how you fought to keep your friends alive. And I just knew that I had to have you."

Woah now.

Dean swallows nervously. He's been a slave long enough to know that being desirable in any way is not a good thing. He's heard stories about people who weren't as lucky as him and were sent to work in brothels instead of colosseums or mines. Some were even kept as pets.

The life of a gladiator was hard and bloody and often much too short but it was a better life than that of a pleasure slave. Of that he has no doubt.

He gawks at the strange man next to him and then flicks his gaze over to the door, wondering if he would be fast enough to escape if it comes down to it.

Probably not. Not only are angels quicker and stronger than humans but they can do that whole teleportation thing.

Dean wouldn't really stand a chance but that doesn't mean he won't give it his best shot.

"And then the finale!" the man exclaims, completely ignorant to Dean's internal debate. "We all thought you were dead. You were buried under all that rock for over fifteen minutes. We didn't think there was any way you could possibly have survived. We'd even started watching your greatest hits on the screens when the labyrinths camera's started up again and there you were, dragging yourself up out of the rubble." The man smiles excitedly. "You were reborn out of the ashes before our very eyes. It was incredible. Breathtaking. The highlight of my day. Which is why I've decided to gift you with a new name. No longer will you be known as 'Wild Child' but as 'Phoenix'."

Dean frowns. What on earth was the guy babbling about? He didn't have the right to assign Dean a new name. Only the master of the colosseum had the right and that was Virgil, a young angel who was brash, violent and didn't at all remind Dean of a hobbit.

But the unknown angel just sits there, completely at ease with what he is saying like he really does have the right to rename gladiators at will.

"Who are you?" Dean finally asks.

The man's eyes widen as he slaps a hand to his forehead. "Of course! How rude of me. I completely forgot to introduce myself." He draws himself up. "My name is Metatron, High King and supreme ruler of this realm."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! So it's been a looooooooong time since I updated this story and I profusely apologise to all those who are/were reading it. But I've decided to start at it again because I love this idea too much to leave alone any longer. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Second Note - So I have dedided to upate this chapter a little because I read through it and decided it was a little wooden and needed a little more description and sarcasm etc. But I did write the first attempt at half three in the morning so I'm not gonna be too hard on myself. Anyways, the editing doesnt really affect the story in any way but I think it helps. =D

Dean's heart drops into his stomach and for a moment he forgets to breathe.

So this is the man who rules the other angels; the man who sentenced him to a life of slavery and had his father killed. This is the man who  _took_   _Sammy_   _from_   _him_.

In a split second, his fear turns to rage and it takes all of his will power to fight it back and keep it hidden behind a well-practiced poker face.

He's surprised to say the least. Dean had tried to picture the all-powerful Metatron ever since he had heard of him and he had always pictured a large, powerful looking man who could strike fear into the hearts of men with just a single glance.

And okay sure, this Metatron guy was creepy but that was all he was. A creep.

A creep who still reminded Dean very much of a hobbit.

Metatron laughs suddenly, looking very pleased with himself. "I've stunned you into silence. Don't worry. You're not the first mortal to marvel at my glory and you certainly won't be the last. I just have that effect on people."

Dean raises an eyebrow but doesn't bother correcting him. If Metatron wants to believe Dean is in awe of him, then that's just fine. In fact, it's probably better that he does think that because the cold fury Dean truly feels would not please the angel at all.

Metatron claps his hands suddenly. "Now, I suppose you must be hungry," he exclaims. "All that running about and fighting has got to have taken its toll."

As much as Dean hates the guy, he can't deny that he is indeed hungry, although he doesn't particularly enjoy eating anymore. As a child, he had always looked forward to meal times. He liked Lucky Charms and cheeseburgers and pie. Oh, how he loved pie.

Now and then, the angels gave him something tasty, like the orange he had at breakfast earlier but for the most part, his diet consisted mostly of tasteless foods like wheat and barley, and a whole host of green plants that didn't look particularly nice and tasted even worse.

But enjoying his food wasn't necessary to his survival. Eating it was.

He nods reluctantly and Metatron's already too-jovial expression brightens even further.

"Excellent!" He scrambles off his chair and motions at Dean to join him.

With a sigh, Dean pushes himself to his feet, wondering if it was too much to have hoped for dinner in bed.

Once he is upright, Metatron takes a hold of his arms. "Brace yourself," is all the warning he gets before the familiar feeling of plummeting down an elevator shaft hits.

"Holy…" Dean breathes when the sensation leaves him, dizzy and feeling vaguely nauseous, standing in a room very different from the one they just left.

"First time?" Metatron enquires.

"First time to have one of you zap me someplace?" Dean scoffs. "No, it's not, but it's not really a feeling you get used to."

Metatron just smirks whilst Dean takes a moment to look about himself in wonder.

This room is huge, with grand paintings of prominent angelic leaders and great battles hanging upon sparkling, white walls. The ceiling is a stain glassed dome with beautiful panels of red and blue hues that reflect back upon the smooth wooden floor, painting it in brilliant colours.

In the centre of the room is a long dining table and it instantly grabs Dean's attention because sitting upon it is enough food to feed a hundred men. And it isn't the usual gruel and plants. There is meat of every kind and pastries and fruits and jellies and cheeses. Everything he had ever dreamed of eating since was first taken.

"Come," Metatron invites. "Sit with me. Eat. And I shall tell you of my plans."

 _His plans_. Usually that was a sentence that would put Dean right on edge but the lure of good food is too much and he finds himself uncaring of whatever it is Metatron has to say, as long as he gets to eat.

Dean has made his way through three pieces of cherry pie, several slices of pizza and is half way through his second turkey drumstick before the angel actually begins to speak.

"How do you like the spread?" he asks from his place at the head of the table. His plate is empty save for a bunch of grapes he is yet to start on.

Dean spares him a contented grunt before tearing back into the meat.

Metatron chuckles. "I'll take that as a good sign." He taps his fingers together a few times before continuing. "How would you like to eat like this all the time?"

That stops Dean in his tracks. Eat like this all the time? He'd give his left arm for something like that. But he has full stomach now and is finally beginning to think straight. He knows that Metatron isn't offering him this out of the kindness of his heart. He pauses mid-chew and looks over at the angel. "What would you want in return?"

"Nothing that isn't already mine to command," Metatron replies simply and Dean starts picking up on that creepy vibe again.

"What does that mean exactly?"

"What it means, Phoenix, is that I own you."

Dean chokes on the bit of turkey still left in his mouth. "You what?"

"I own you. I did before, of course, supreme ruler and all, but today I decided to make it official and actually buy you. You  _and_  your three companions." He waves his hands around excitedly. "The Gladiators who escaped the labyrinth. You'll make a splendid addition to my collection."

"Your collection?" Panic squeezes at Dean's throat and he fights it desperately for control of his voice as his mind races through all the awful stories of human pets and angel owners.

"My collection of fighters. The finest Gladiators to walk this earth. I am a connoisseur of the arts, Phoenix, and I am King. I will only accept the best and anyone who can face off against a couple of dragons and live to tell the tale most certainly has place amongst the best."

"You want me…want  _us_ …as your own personal Gladiators?" Dean's head swirls at the news.

It's a lot better than being made a pet, that was for sure but the idea of being one of the Supreme Ruler's very own fighters? That didn't sound all that fun either.

"Absolutely. Your old master didn't want to sell you, of course. He was a most stubborn salesman but in the end, I was able to give him an offer he just couldn't refuse." The sudden malicious glint in Metatron's eyes told Dean that his 'offer' was probably less of a large sum of money and more of a threat of grievous violence.

"You won't be leaving with me straight away." Metatron continued. "You shall all stay at the colosseum for the next week whilst I have your rooms and trainers prepared. There are four of you after all so it shall take a bit of time."

Dean gaped at him. He made it sound like they were each going to get their own rooms. But that couldn't be right. Could it?

"Are you alright, Phoenix? You're looking rather pale."

Dean blinks and shakes himself from his thoughts. "I…yes, I'm fine. I'm just…a bit tired."

Metatron slaps his forehead, something he seems drawn to do whenever confronted with the obvious. "Of course you're tired. You've had a  _very_  taxing day. Even I am feeling a little weary and would benefit from some rest."

He stands and Dean follows suit, eager to get back to Chuck and the others.

"It has been wonderful to finally meet you in person, Phoenix," Metatron says, clapping Dean on the shoulder in a friendly manner that Dean does not at all like. "I look forward to working with you in the future."

He starts for the exit, two magnificent, golden doors that are almost as tall as the wall, and Dean just stands there, confused as to why he hasn't been zapped back yet.

As if reading his mind, Metatron calls over his shoulder. "I have sent for someone to take you back. He will be with you shortly."

So Dean just sits back down at the table, picks at his half eaten drumstick and waits.

It's been a good ten minutes when the door finally reopens and another figure steps inside. Dean stands back up, brushes the stray crumbs from his white gown and prepares himself for the freefalling sensation that he really hopes his full stomach can handle.

When the angel reaches him, he throws a bundle of black clothing at his feet.

"Put these on," he orders and Dean freezes.

That voice.

Strong and gravelly and deeply engrained into his mind. A voice he hears almost every night.

He slowly lifts his eyes from the floor to glare at the man before him and meets a stony, blue gaze.

"You," he hisses.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel says in return.

Dean can barely believe his eyes. It's been ten years since he last saw the angel that took him from his home but Castiel hasn't aged a bit.

He knows angels age slower than humans (years of training under Balthazar and Anna was proof enough of that) but in their time apart, Dean had grown into a fully grown adult. He feels it only fair that Castiel changes a little too. A new wrinkle or a single grey hair. Something!

But no, Castiel looks exactly the same. The same raven hair, the same kindly face. He even had on the same damn trench coat, as if no time at all had passed for him.

But as Dean continues to search the angel's face, he notices than even though nothing looks different, Castiel certainly  _feels_  different.

Dean wasn't a psychic and in all honesty he didn't really buy into all that crap but there was something of an aura surrounding Castiel now. Something sad and tired and angry that had not been there before.

He realises he's been staring for too long when Castiel raises his eyebrows questioningly, and Dean clears his throat, suddenly feeling a little awkward. "What are you doing here?" he finally asks.

"That is not of import." Castiel replies tersely. "Please get dressed."

"Not of…" Dean mouths in disbelief before deciding he would much rather carry on this conversation with actual clothes on instead of the flimsy material that barely reaches his knees. He dresses himself hastily, turning away from Castiel because the jerk doesn't even have the decency to turn away himself.

"Let's go," Castiel grunts just as he's lacing his boots, because apparently waiting two more seconds for him to finish would be asking too much.

"Hold on," Dean protests and quickly tries to stand but before he even makes it half way, there is a hand on his shoulder and he feels the ground shift from underneath him.

The moment they appear back in the infirmary, Dean falls forward into Castiel, all sense of balance completely immobilized for the time being.

If Dean hadn't felt awkward enough before, he certainly does now, with his face mushed into the angel's stomach.

Castiel sighs and pulls Dean up to a standing position only to have him sway dangerously forward again.

"This is why I told you to wait." Dean groans. "Oh, man, I'm gonna' puke."

"You are fine," Castiel tells him.

"And you're a douche." Dean retorts. Usually he makes a point of not insulting angels. They didn't generally take it very well but he feels that the name calling is justified this time.

Apparently Castiel does too because he just rolls his eyes and begins to pull Dean forward out of the room. "I'm taking you back to your quarters. You can throw up when you get there."

Dean glares daggers into Castiel's back as he follows after him on unsteady feet. " _Douche_."

As they draw closer to the Gladiators' cells, Dean decides to try one more time. "So, you ever going to tell me what you  _are_  doing here?"

Castiel sighs again and Dean begins to get the distinct impression that the angel does not have half the patience he used to or maybe it's just that Dean has become more of a nuisance than he had been as a child, but he prefers the former option.

"I'm working."

"But don't you go around ripping people from their homes so they can enter a life of servitude and slavery? Isn't that your job?" Dean doesn't even try to keep the resentment out of his voice.

Castiel's grip on his arm tightens to the point of painful. "I don't do that anymore. I've been promoted."

Dean snorts disbelievingly as they turn a corner and then they are there, right in front of the gates that lead into the mess hall.

"Gladiator Phoenix back from the infirmary." Castiel informs the angel on guard, who promptly unlocks the gate for them.

Dean suddenly realises that this might well be the last time he ever sees Castiel, or at least the last time he sees him for the next ten years and his peace of mind can't wait that long, especially after the dream he'd had back in the infirmary. He needs to know where his brother is, needs to know that he's okay, and this angel is probably one of the few who actually knows.

"Cas, wait," Dean says and seriously, where did  _that_  come from? Giving the surly angel a nickname had not been on his to-do list but it was out now, he'd said it, so he was going to roll with it.

Castiel looks a little put out with the change of name too but doesn't try to correct him.

"My brother, Sam…do you know where he is?"

Castiel hesitates and then carefully replies. "I have not seen Sam since the day of your sorting."

"But you know where he went, right? You know where he was placed?" Dean persists.

A brief look of sorrow flashes across Castiel's face but he schools his features into an indifferent mask so fast that Dean almost misses it.

Almost.

"Please tell me," Dean says, not at all caring that he is practically begging at this point.

"Believe me when I say this." Castiel breathes as he gently pushes Dean through the open gate. "You are better off not knowing."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so this is a lot later than I was hoping to get this chapter written and right now its past 3 in the morning so I apologise for any grammar/spelling mistakes that are bound to be in here. I'll edit them out when i dont feel like a zombie. =D Hope you enjoy!

Better off not knowing? What was that supposed to mean? Dean spins around to insist the angel explain himself only to have the gate slammed in his face by the guard.

Castiel is gone.

Dean sucks in a shuddering breath. It has been ten years; a whole decade since he and Sam were separated and he is still no closer to finding out where his brother is. Neither is he any closer to finding a way of escaping the colosseum so that he can go in search of him. Though after his chat with Metatron, it now seems like he won't be staying there for much longer anyway.

Instead he'll have to escape the clutches of the Supreme Ruler himself. Because that didn't sound impossible at all.

"Dean?" a familiar voice says softly, carrying him back to the present.

He turns to see Chuck stood several feet behind him, his face uncertain and eyes wider and more pained than Dean's ever seen them.

"Hey," he greets with a small smile. The single word seems entirely insufficient but he isn't sure what else to say.

Chuck makes a broken sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob and lurches forward, grabbing Dean in a tight hold and burrowing his face into the younger man's neck.

"I thought you were dead," he chokes out.

Dean feels his collar dampening with his friend's tears and he fights back the wetness in his own eyes. "You're not getting rid of me that easy," he quips.

Chuck rears back and takes a hold of Dean's face, turning it both ways. "But how?" he gapes. "I saw the footage. I saw you climb out of the rubble…you were burned…and bleeding…there was no way anyone could have survived that."

"I did."

"But you shouldn't have!"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Well, if you'd like, I can beg the masters to let me back into the labyrinth for a redo but honestly, I'm good with this outcome."

"Smartass," Chuck breathes, pulling him back in for another hug and Dean just grins and leans into the embrace.

When they finally pull apart, Dean realizes they have an audience. A lot of the other gladiators, both old and new, have gathered around and are staring at Dean with varying expressions of confusion, wonder and something else that looks suspiciously like anger, which Dean supposes he can understand. After all, he had literally been at death's door only a few hours ago and now here he is, walking and talking with not a mark on him.

If it had been anyone else, any other gladiator that had made a miraculous recovery from almost certain death, he would have been distrustful of them too. Still, the sudden shift in the atmosphere is more than a little disconcerting.

Many of the others whisper amongst themselves but Dean can't make out the words hidden underneath the hiss of their breaths and all of a sudden, he feels like a ten-year-old kid again, small, anxious and surrounded by men who don't want him there.

Chuck takes a hold of his arm. "Come on. I'm not too sure about this lot but there are a couple of people I know will be happy to see you."

Together they shoulder their way through the group of people until they reach their cell. Both of their blankets have been hung up in front of it; something that is only ever done when someone wants somewhere private to mourn the loss of a loved one…or if someone wants to spend some alone time with a loved one, but Dean doesn't think that the last option applies to the situation at hand.

Chuck pulls aside a blanket and ushers him inside, following him in but staying by the makeshift curtain, as if standing guard which, Dean realises, is quite possibly what he is doing.

Dean hopes it is an unnecessary precaution and that his friend is just being overly careful but he knows what disgruntled gladiators are capable of.

He puts that out of his mind for now as he glances around their small cell and finds himself looking at two very welcome faces.

The Avenger and Kevin are sat on Chuck's bed, huddled closely together. Both of them look bruised up and bone weary, and Avenger's left leg is heavily bandaged from her foot to just above her knee but considering everything they had been through today, Dean thinks they look damn good. They turn to stare at him as he enters and their eyes widen in shock.

"No way. Dean?" Kevin gasps.

"Sup, Kid," Dean grins.

Avenger goes several shades paler, all colour draining from her face and Dean turns to her in alarm. "Hey, you okay there? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

Avenger stares at him for a moment longer before quietly replying, "I'm still not sure I haven't."

"You're alive?" The way Kevin says it, voice full of utter disbelief, definitely makes it a question and Dean can't help a small huff of laughter.

"I guess so."

Kevin's face transforms from shocked to ecstatic in a second and before Dean even has the time to blink, the kid has leapt from the bed and thrown his arms around Dean's middle, squeezing tightly.

Dean freezes, unsure of how to react, before settling on awkwardly patting Kevin on the back in a 'there, there' kind of way.

"Yeah, it's good to see you too, kid," he grunts.

"I already told you, that's not my name." Kevin sniffs as he finally releases Dean and settles back onto the bed.

"But how?" Avenger asks, still staring at Dean like he is some sort of apparition. "How are you still alive?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Chuck adds from his place behind them. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're back and that you're okay but like I said before, no one should have survived those wounds."

"And no one should have been able to come back from those wounds without so much as a scratch." Avenger added. "I saw you, Dean. You should be scarred for life. Disfigured even, but instead you're.…" she broke off and just waved a hand at him, at gesture which Dean took to mean 'as incredibly pretty as always'.

"So what happened?" Chuck finally asks.

Dean sighs heavily, knowing that his explanation will only bring up more questions but also knowing that everyone in the room needed to hear what he had to say. After all, they were all a part of this too.

"Metatron happened." Dean says simply before launching into his account of what had gone down in the med bay.

When he tells them of how the Supreme Ruler had healed him with his angel mojo, they are equal parts shocked and outraged that the angels had this power but didn't usually deign to use it on their human slaves.

Avenger seemed to take the news the hardest. "All the people they could have saved…" she spits angrily and Dean knows she's thinking of her brother. She shoots Dean a glare. "What makes you so special?"

Dean flinches under her unforgiving gaze, suddenly remembering why he avoided her in the past. "I – I asked him that too," he answers. "He told me he wanted me in his collection. He wants all of us in his collection."

Stunned silence meets his words until…

"What is that supposed to mean?" Chuck explodes. "What collection?"

Dean can tell that his friend's mind has shot someplace dark just like his had upon hearing the news for the first time. "His collection of Gladiators. He wants the best and apparently we fit the bill."

This seems to placate Chuck a little but both he and Avenger still look like they want to go and murder somebody.

"So do we have to leave?" Kevin asks quietly and looks absolutely crestfallen when Dean nods his head. "When?"

"We have a week."

A panicked look crosses briefly over the boy's face and Dean can't help wondering why he cares so much about where they lived. Whether it was this colosseum or another, their fates would remain the same.

"I'm too tired to listen to any more of this." Avenger growls, "I'm leaving."

She stands and goes to do just that but as she brushes past Dean, she hesitates. "I'm glad you're all right." She finally bites out through gritted teeth, but the words sound hard and sour to Dean, leaving him doubtful that she really means them.

"She's not really angry at you," Chuck assures him once she's gone, blanket swishing in her wake. "Even if she doesn't realise it yet."

Dean hopes Chuck's right. He may have only really known Avenger for the day but despite her usual terrifying demeanour, she was actually a pretty cool person. Headstrong, funny and tough; she was someone Dean would like to be able to call friend.

The three of them sit in silence for a while, before Chuck interrupts it with a snigger. "So Kevin here managed to earn himself a name."

"Really?" Dean's genuinely surprised. It usually takes several fights for the angels to name a gladiator. Kevin must have done something exceptional to have been named after only one.

Kevin's only response is to groan and hide is face in his hands but not before Dean spots the faint blush on his cheeks. The same blush that always appeared whenever Dean mentioned a certain word.

Suddenly, Dean wants to laugh too. "They named you 'The Virgin', didn't they?"

"No!" Kevin says quickly, face snapping back up and reddening even further. "Why do you have to keep bringing that up?"

Dean shrugs with a grin whilst Chuck shakes with silent laughter. "Just seemed like something the angels would do, that's all."

"Well you're not too far off," Chuck tells him. "From now on, our young friend here shall be known to the angel community as Dragon Bait."

Kevin hangs his head again and Dean can't help another chuckle at his expense. "Dragon Bait? Seriously? Well that's going to strike fear into the hearts of all those who hear of you."

Kevin shoots him a scathing look. "Like Wild Child is any better."

"Kid's got a point." Chuck agrees.

"The kid would have a point," Dean snarks back, suddenly and bizarrely grateful for Metatron's gift, if only so he can win this argument. "If the Supreme Ruler hadn't decided to change my name."

"Wait…what?"

"Metatron changed my name. I don't know, maybe it's because I'm going to be one of his fighter's now and he wanted me to have a cooler title or something."

"I didn't think they could do that. Just change a gladiator's name like that."

"Neither did I." Dean says. "Until today."

"Well, let's hear it then. This new name of yours."

Dean tells them and Chuck seems strangely impressed. "That's not actually half bad. It's better than your old name in any case."

Dean gives Kevin his best smug grin. "I rest my case."

The kid just rolls his eyes in return.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean doesn't dream that night. His mind, too exhausted by the day's events, just shuts down the moment he crawls onto his cot.

And it probably would have stayed that way for a long time if it hadn't been for Chuck shaking him awake early the next morning.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," he rumbles, sounding half asleep himself. "Breakfast is in ten."

Dean groans, and wonders, not for the first time, why sleep-ins were not something that angels believed in.

"You know, I'm not sure they even need sleep." Chuck says, now pulling at his arm. Apparently, Dean had wondered aloud. "And though it might not seem like it, you don't need any more either, so come on already."

With another grumble, Dean finally relents and lets himself be pulled upright and it's only when the blanket slips from his shoulders that he truly realises how cold it is without it.

Winters in the colosseum were always hard and morning always seemed the worst. But that might have been because morning was when they were supposed to wash and shave.

Dean could smell the faint scent of soap on Chuck already so he must have been up for a while, despite his dishevelled appearance, and had also helpfully filled Dean's wash bowl with soapy water and pulled out his toiletries bag from underneath his cot.

Every gladiator received one when they first started and each contained a razor blade, soap bar, tooth brush and tube of toothpaste (which tasted more like salt than mint) and each item was replaced when necessary. Gladiators may be slaves but their masters allowed them the basic hygiene essentials, at the very least.

Dean eyes the bowl of frigid water with obvious disdain before yanking his night shirt up over his head and grabbing his razor. The faster he got this done, the faster he could get warm again.

He was about to start when he heard Chuck gasp. It was more a small intake of breath really but Dean heard it all the same. He glances over his shoulder. "What?"

Chuck is staring at him with wide eyes, not unlike the way he had stared at him yesterday. "Your back."

Dean frowns. "Of course I'm back." He wonders if he should be worried. Maybe Chuck had sustained some sort of head injury during his time in the labyrinth. Was there even such a thing as belated amnesia?

"No, your back." Chuck gestures at Dean's back this time and now Dean understands. Not amnesia then.

He glances down as far as he can but he can't really see much further than his shoulder. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing," Chuck chokes. "That's the problem. There's not a thing wrong with it. Not a single scar in sight."

"Huh," Dean muses. "He said he'd healed them."

"What?"

"Metatron," Dean explains. "He told me he'd healed all my old scars as well as my new injuries. I hadn't bothered to check though."

Dean had had the scars on his back for a long time. Such a long time that he'd almost forgotten they were there.

The first ten he earned when he was only eleven years old. That was the first time he tried to escape. It wasn't well thought out and he was caught before he even made it out of the arena. Balthazar had been the one to deliver the ten lashes, using a leather whip that had cut into him and left him hurt and bleeding but Dean knew the angel had taken it easy on him. It could have been much worse.

The next ten were from his next ill-advised escape attempt at the age of fourteen. He had tried to bring Chuck along with him this time but the older man had refused and told Dean not to bother trying either but Dean didn't listen and Balthazar didn't bother holding back a second time. Dean wasn't able to wear a shirt comfortably for over a week afterwards.

The third and final time he tried to break free was when he was seventeen years old and the colosseum master, Virgil, decided that he would be the one to deliver the punishment this time. He used a whip like the other angel but his whip had many more tails and each one was cruelly knotted at the end. He delivered the same ten lashes, which amounted to exactly ninety of Balthazar's, and Dean had never felt pain like it. When the flogging stopped and he was freed from the pole he was bound to, it was all he could do to stay conscious.

Chuck had all but carried him back to their cell and that's when Dean eventually lost the battle and passed out. Balthazar and Anna scolded him for his stupidity the next day but they let him take a week off to recover.

He hadn't tried anything since then but the previous three sentences had been enough to leave his back a mess of thin, white lines that crisscrossed from his neck to his hips, the skin mottled and puckered from the irreparable damage it had been dealt.

"Well, I think he was telling the truth." Chuck says. "The scars are definitely gone and I guess it was good of him but I gotta be honest, he's just making things harder for you. There are people here that won't understand. That won't like that you're getting special treatment."

Dean knows it's true. The reaction he received from everyone upon his return yesterday was evidence enough but he's out of here in a week anyway and he never really worried too much about what other people thought of him. He shrugs and returns to his shaving. The barred doors will be sliding open any minute now and he doesn't want to be the last in line for breakfast.

"I'm serious, Dean. You mustn't let anyone know."

"Okay, I get it." Dean replies in exasperation. "My lips are sealed. Not that I think that it will matter much. I'm pretty sure they will have already figured out that I have been healed in some way or other. You know, since they all watched me get burned to a crisp on live TV yesterday."

Chuck grimaces. "Then fake ignorance. You don't know how you're alive. You don't know how you're not hurt. You just woke up that way."

Dean just flings his razor back into the bag and grunts his agreement. It sounds non-committal at best but it stops Chuck's ranting.

The cell doors open just as Dean is pulling on his usual black t-shirt and the two of them manage to be first in line.

Their breakfast isn't too much better than yesterday's but at least it's more filling.

Cooked wheat berries and milk has never been Dean's favourite dish, even before he was taken. His Dad had made it for them a few times and though Sam had loved it, spooning in sugar and then wolfing it down so fast, it was a wonder he never got stomach ache, Dean only ever played with it, mushing it against the side of the dish in an endeavour to make it look like he had at least tried some.

He and Chuck seat themselves at their usual table and scan the room for their three usual companions; Jacob, Eli and Rebecca. It doesn't take long to find them but the moment Dean's eyes meet theirs, they turn away and sit down at a far end table.

"Now that's just plain rude." Dean comments sourly. He expected others to ignore him, sure, but he considered these three friends…or at the very least, close acquaintances. The fact that they would disown him so quickly kind of hurt.

Chuck just shakes his head and shoves a too-large spoonful of wheat berries into his mouth.

"Hey, guys," Kevin's voice suddenly chirps from beside Dean, who had a hard time not jumping at the unexpected appearance. The kid was a freaking ninja.

"Kevin," Chuck greets through a mouthful of food.

"You sure you want to sit with us?" Dean grouses, still glaring daggers into Jacob's back.

"Why wouldn't I?" Kevin's smile is practically ear to ear and Dean can't, for the life of him, think why. What can he possibly have to grin about?

Whatever the cause, he just looks so damn happy right now that Dean finds he doesn't have the heart to tell him exactly why he shouldn't want to sit with them.

"No reason," he finishes lamely.

They eat in silence for a while but that only allows Dean time to stew over his friends' betrayal and to notice the scowls that were being directed his way by various different gladiators.

Back in the cell, Dean had thought he was ready for this, that he didn't care what others thought of him but now that he's actually subject to their scrutiny, he realises he's not quite as resilient as he liked to think. The more eyes he felt land on him, the more he wanted to get up and punch somebody in the face.

Chuck seems to pick up on his rising anxiety level and before it can hit critical, he intervenes.

"So, Kevin, tell us about yourself."

Kevin startles. "Huh?"

"Tell us about yourself. Dean and I know everything there is to know about each other." It was a bit of an overstatement but not too far from the truth. "But we don't really know anything about you. Tell us who you are."

"Umm…" the kid's already blushing. Apparently, any kind of unwanted attention has him turning into a tomato. "Well, my name is Kevin Tran. I'm seventeen years old and I was born and raised in Neighbour, Michigan."

"Okay. What else?" Chuck prompted. And Dean found himself wanting to know more too. After all, he had promised himself in the labyrinth that he would try to get to know Kevin better if they both made it out alive.

Kevin is looking more and more flustered though. "There isn't really a whole lot more to say. Before I was shipped here, I lived with my parents in a concentration camp but then - "

Chuck chokes on his wheat.

"Whoa, hold up." Dean exclaims, suddenly very confused. "What do you mean, concentration camp? I'm pretty sure those thing were outlawed, like, decades ago."

Kevin frowns at him. "Exactly how long have you guys been in here?"

"Ten years, give or take." Dean replies.

"Twelve for me." Chuck says.

Kevin nods to himself. "So you were among the first to be taken. Makes sense. A lot has changed since then."

"What do you mean?" Chuck asks. He's frowning now and Dean knows he's doing the same. He'd never really given much thought to what was going on outside the colosseum but he always figured the outside world would just remain the same.

"When the Angels took you, I bet you hadn't even heard of them before, right?"

Chuck and Dean both nod their heads.

"Right, because they'd only just arrived and they hadn't established themselves properly yet. But they are everywhere now. There isn't a place on earth that they haven't taken over or destroyed. They own everything."

Dean gulped. The very idea of escape was beginning to look more and more futile. Even if he did get out, even if he did find Sam, where could they go in a world ruled by Angels?

"So you lived in a concentration camp." Chuck says after a while. "What happened to get you sent here?"

Kevin hesitates, squirming in his seat for a long moment. "There was an uprising," he mutters eventually, his gaze firmly fixed on the bowl in front of him. "A lot of people got involved, fought back against the Angels, and a lot of them were killed for it. When it was over, we were separated into groups and sent off to different placements. I guess we couldn't be trusted to stay together anymore."

"Were you a part of the uprising?" Dean asks quietly, thoroughly intrigued by the story now. Humans had actually banded together to rebel against the Angels? It was crazy, foolish even, but he couldn't help admiring these people for their bravery.

Surely, Kevin must have played some part in it to have been sent to the colosseum to fight.

But Kevin just shook his head bitterly. "I don't even know how to handle a sword properly, Dean. What do you think?"

It was a shame really. An actual, real life rebel would have been a handy person to have around when he actually got around to planning his escape.

A shrill alarm suddenly blares out, signalling the end of breakfast and the beginning of a long day of training.

The door leading to the outside arena opens, and a blast of frosty air gushes in. If Dean wasn't cold before, he certainly is now and he really doesn't want to go out into that.

Everyone else is already moving, scrambling off their benches and making their way outside, except for those who are on cleaning duty, who instead begin clearing up the tables.

"No rest for the wicked," Chuck sighs. "Let's go."

Dean tries to stand but before he can make it all the way up, a hand clamps down on his shoulder and pushes him right back down.

"Not so fast," a low voice growls behind him. The hand stops Dean from turning to see the man to whom the voice belongs but he knows instantly whose it is. Even if it has been three whole years since he last heard it.

It's hard to forget the voice of a man who takes so much pleasure in hurting you.

He watches as Chuck's face drains of the very little colour it has and knows he's right.

It's Virgil.


End file.
